


Seekers Games

by bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Wears Bike Shorts, Drarry, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Harry Looses It, Harry pov, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Midnight meetings, One Shot, Quidditch, Seekers, Slow Burn, Sort Of, flirtting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 03:11:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12696039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23/pseuds/bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23
Summary: Harry and Draco met on the pitch to play a seekers game. It turns into a regular thing and while it started as a way to get out frustrations and play quidditch since 8th years weren’t allowed on the house teams, it grew into something more.





	Seekers Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Forgetticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forgetticus/gifts).



“You actually showed up?”

Harry shifted his broom from one hand to the other. The familiar feel of the wood against his calloused palms made him miss the rush of quidditch. He hadn’t played in two years thanks to the war and McGonagall deciding that eighth years weren’t allowed on house teams, so when he was faced with an opportunity to best Draco in a seeker's game, he made sure to take it.

“Of course I showed up, Potter. Why wouldn’t I show up?” Draco asked, his voice sharp against the quiet of the night. Just as sharp, his white-blonde hair and pale skin which stood out against the dark backdrop of the field. He wore dark clothes, too, which only heightened the contrast of his skin and hair. It was striking and Harry hated that Draco showing up made his stomach flip with excitement.

Harry watched Draco for a moment, his posture rigidly straight as always, reminded Harry of a ballerina. Then he swallowed hard because _why was he comparing Draco to a ballerina anyways?_

“Figured you for a coward.” Harry opted for an insult in response instead of the truth which was he was afraid Draco would stand him up and he would have been the fool who snuck out at midnight to stand in an empty field with a snitch buzzing in his pocket.

“Well, you figured wrong, then.”

“That remains to be seen. Remember the rules?”

“Don’t be a prat,” Draco said, rolling his eyes.

“Fine then, let’s do this.”

Laughing, Draco readied his broom and said, “Merlin’s beard, Potter, who knew you were such a drama queen.”

Instead of responding with _I know you are but what am I_  like he wanted to, Harry pulled the practice snitch out of his pocket. It had been humming against his thigh while they spoke, but now, exposed to the night air, it was thrumming with energy, itching to zip into the sky and flit along until one of them caught it.

Harry watched Draco mount his broom swiftly. The motion was one of practice, of patience. Harry wasn’t so stubborn that he couldn’t admit, at least to himself, he envied the ease with which Draco did most things. Like his body was built for each situation, perfectly able to flex and fold where needed. Like water fitting into a container, Draco’s body could adapt to his surroundings effortlessly.

After a moment, Harry shook thoughts of Draco’s flexible limbs from his mind and mounted his broom, with much less grace, and zipped off after Draco and the snitch.

The air was like a warm caress. It had the beginnings of summer. Yet, there was still a crispness to the air that filled Harry’s lungs with each deep breath he took.

Midnight had been his bright idea. He spoke the words before he even considered that meant they would have to find a snitch, which was already difficult to catch, in the dark. Harry blamed his ego. He never could avoid a challenge, especially against Draco. Any logic he had, went up in a puff of smoke whenever Draco sauntered over to him ready to trade insults.

Harry mused, the time seemed fitting as it was midnight all those years ago when Draco challenged him to a duel, only to never show up. He had to admit, he considered standing Draco up just to be petty, but then he realized that he had been looking forward to their match all day, so pride be damned.

The sky, even lit as it was in starlight, felt endlessly dark. The expanse much like looking out at the ocean. It made Harry feel small, but Draco—he seemed to take up all the space in the night sky. Everywhere Harry looked he saw the flash of white-blonde hair and was instantly reminded of a hummingbird flitting around flowers in search of nectar. His speed had improved since their last time playing one another two years ago. For a moment, Harry felt stupid because clearly Draco had been practicing while Harry was as out of practice as they came.

Harry hovered in a corner of the pitch, watching for a flick of gold against the darkness. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. It was nearly as bad as the time he had to face the dragon in the Triwizard tournament. He wasn’t sure if it was the adrenaline of the game, or who he was playing with, but his body felt as alive as the snitch had in his pocket.

Draco, on the other hand, had not stopped flying since taking off. He circled the pitch, his head held high, his eyes narrowed. Harry was reminded of a bird of prey. The only issue—was the snitch the prey, or was Harry?

Draco always made him feel like he was on display somehow. Not on display in the way the Daily Prophet or the rest of the wizarding world put him on display like he was some rare animal they needed to study or understand. With Draco, it was more that he was seeing the things Harry hid from everyone else and he was zeroing in on them like a hawk would it’s dinner.

Sometimes, it was his insecurities that Draco would pick at like a dead carcass. Shredding him to bits until all that was left was bone. Other times, he would notice Harry’s mood shift—when Harry was sure no one was watching—and seem to watch and wait for Harry to admit that he wasn’t happy.

Mostly, Draco saw the Harry that Harry, himself, wasn’t very sure he liked. It was the Harry who sort of hated Ron and Hermione for being so well adjusted after the war. It was the Harry who kept his nightmares secret because it seemed no one wanted to discuss Voldemort anymore—like he had been an inconvenience and not a madman. It was the Harry who wanted to yell and scream whenever someone congratulated him for saving the wizarding world as if he won a Quidditch match and hadn’t resorted to murder to keep people safe.

For some messed up reason, Draco saw all of that. He never explicitly said it, but it was clear in his actions. It was clear because Draco never once treated Harry like he belonged on that pedestal, like it was some privilege to be seen as a hero...like Harry was this thing to be admired and not just a teenage boy who wanted to finish school.

He treated him like he always had—like a person—or at least like a person who got on every last nerve Draco ever had and ever would have. It was honest, at least. Unlike many of the other people he knew, Draco treated him in an completely mundane way and he was thankful for that.

  
The thought made Harry’s stomach sink. Up until recently, he had successfully avoided this line of thinking. Anytime it reared its ugly head, Harry made sure to distract himself with homework, or watching Ron and Hermione be disgustingly in love, because anything was better than thinking; _Maybe I should thank Draco for being a prick to me._

  
But out here, in the dark, alone with Draco, Harry couldn’t find a damn thing to distract him, except for maybe the snitch. But he hadn’t seen it yet, and frankly, he found himself not caring. Then like an answer to a prayer, Harry heard the snitch buzz past his ear and he took off after it.

  
Once he caught a glimpse of it zooming downward to the ground, he chanced a look around to see if Draco noticed. And of course he had. Within seconds, Draco was on Harry, keeping pace with him. Their shoulders bumped and Harry felt himself shift off his broom slightly. Their proximity made Harry’s focus waiver and he felt himself losing his grip on the broom.

  
As the ground grew closer, Harry pulled up on his broom and slowed his speed. Draco didn’t. He kept in the dive until the last possible second, but missed the snitch. Harry watched as it flitted off to the left and disappeared under the stands.

  
Draco let out a groan and zoomed upward. When he passed Harry, he pulled a face. It seemed to say, _Well, at least you didn’t catch it either._ Harry returned with a cocksure smile. He felt his face get hot when Draco only rolled his eyes and scoffed before pulling on his broom and heading the opposite direction.

Even without words, Draco managed to get under his skin to the point where Harry simply wanted to catch the snitch just to rub it in Draco’s face that he had. With renewed attention, Harry scanned the pitch. He never did understand why most seekers moved around when searching for the snitch, when really, it was probably easier to spot when standing still.

  
After the first sighting, Harry positioned himself back in the corner of the pitch. This strategy always worked when he played, so he saw no reason to switch it up now. Draco kept moving like a madman. It was hard to keep his eyes searching for the snitch, especially when Draco zipped past him and Harry would catch a whiff Draco—sweat mixed with something earthy like rain, though rain hadn’t fallen in over a week.

Harry found his eyes traveling with Draco as he made loops in the sky, his white-blonde hair in the sky like a sparkler—the light blurring and whirring together to create shapes when waved around. If Draco had flown like this when they played before, Harry might have been worried. As it stood, Harry had always known he was the better flyer—naturally talented, but apparently Draco was aiming for supernaturally talented because even in Harry’s wildest dreams, he couldn’t imagine having so much control over his movements as Draco seemed to have.

Then, over by the opposite goal posts, Harry spotted the snitch. It floated mid-air and beckoned Harry to move—to catch it, but he hesitated, his eyes flitting over to Draco of their own accord. He eyed Draco, who was soaring high above the pitch looking in the opposite direction, and his stomach caved in on itself.

Harry gripped his broom tight. Draco looked in the wrong direction. The wind whistled in his ears as he made his way to the opposite goal posts. His heartbeat, pounding as furiously as if he were facing that troll his first year, echoed in his head. It was the rush he had been hoping for when he agreed to play Draco—the rush he expected, craved.

He didn’t look for Draco. He focused on the snitch. And when he stretched out his right hand, he did not anticipat any interference.

Yet, just as he was about to close his fingers around the snitch and feel the rush of victory pulse through his body, Draco soared in from the left, grunting resolutely, and snatched it out of sight before Harry could.

Harry couldn’t believe it. He lost.

On the ground, Harry was met by Draco, grinning and holding the snitch between his index finger and thumb.

“Bit slow. Out of practice, Potter?”

“You got lucky,” Harry snapped back, even though he knew it was a lie. Harry had not counted on Draco’s flying skills, nor his speed.

“Potter, you lout, you know luck had nothing to do with it.”

“Rematch. Tomorrow. Same time?”

Harry could not believe himself. The words flew out of his mouth of their own accord, simply ignoring the part of his brain that said he was definitely biting off more than he could chew, especially since he still had no idea why he felt the need to be near Draco at all.

A smile played at the corner of Draco’s mouth. Then he licked his lips. The motion made Harry feel like he’d be hit with a stupify.

“I suppose I could be convinced to beat you again, Potter,” Draco said, shoving the snitch into Harry’s hand. For a moment, Draco’s hand lingered. His fingers against Harry’s palm—then he was turning away and heading off the pitch.

***

Midnight seekers games became a regular thing for Harry and Draco after that night. They met at least twice a week, sometimes more, to fly around in the crisp midnight air. Harry kept it secret from his mates, simply because it was nice to have something that was his and only his—something he didn’t have to share with the whole wizarding world.

It seemed that Draco kept it secret as well since no Slytherins had poked fun at him for losing that first night. Harry let himself wonder why Draco kept it secret. Was it for the same reasons as Harry, or was it because of their history? Was it because things had always been so volatile between them?

Whatever it was, it was their secret.

Knowing that their matches were private made them all the more exciting for Harry. At first, the simple rebellion of sneaking out for something as mundane as playing a seeker's game made Harry’s head swim. It was the most normal thing he had done at Hogwarts, since…well, since ever.

Harry would sneak out, sometimes using the invisibility cloak, sometimes he would just waltz out of the dorm, ignoring Ron’s curious looks. On nights when he used the cloak, he found himself wondering how Draco made it out to the pitch without anyone noticing. He never asked questions though, since the mystery of it was another part of the excitement.

When Harry thought about it, and he thought about it often, he wasn’t sure what compelled Draco to continue these meetings. Sure, they had a rivalry and once upon a time, it was a ‘horns locked in battle’ sort of rivalry. But now, it was less and more at the same time. Now it was more of bear cubs play fighting—testing their limits. Harry knew what he was getting out of these meetings. He just wasn’t sure what Draco was getting.

Most nights, Harry won and it always made Draco throw a tantrum. The first night had been a fluke. He decided it had been that he was distracted by the newness of it all because on the second night, he caught the snitch so quickly that the game was over before half past midnight. 

Draco’s face was one of pure shock when Harry landed on the pitch. His eyes were wide and his mouth agape. Before Harry could even gloat, Draco was demanding a rematch, claiming that Harry cheated somehow and that he would surely have won if Harry played fair.

He was getting his speed back with each match. And while Draco was quick, Harry’s reflexes were fractionally better. Draco was as closely matched to Harry as a person could be in skill, and he was not afraid to dive or try a risky maneuver if necessary. Harry even found himself attempting risky techniques just to see if Draco would mimic him or try to outdo him which he always did—or at least tried to.

And so, another sort of match grew from there. Not only were they chasing the snitch—they were chasing each other. A battle of wills, of pure unadulterated stubbornness to be better than one another in every way. It reminded Harry of the muggle game Dudley played with his mates. It was called HORSE and it was basketball, but everyone had to make the same shots. Each shot grew more difficult or convoluted in attempt to make one’s opponent mess up.

So whenever Harry tried a Wronski Feint, or a Sloth Grip Roll, Draco would counter with a Wrights’ Dive, or Plumpkin’s Pull. One time in particular, Harry had been so enraptured by Draco’s movements and the ease with which he transitioned from a dive to an upward spiral that he completely forgot the snitch and instead, attempted a Wronski Feint that spiraled into a Trinkets Table just to challenge Draco into doing more tricks.

He found, more and more, that he wanted to see the way Draco moved. He wanted to watch Draco’s taut muscles relax into a motion, watch his wrists tighten into fingers gripped hard around the broom handle, watch his jaw clench right before he sped up into a trick. There was an intensity in all that Draco did—nothing without purpose, nothing without cause, and yet, nothing predictable. He was calculating and rash, somehow all at once.

Unintentionally, Harry began to end their sessions, not just by gloating, but by asking Draco where he learned to dive like that, or when he learned that holding the broom further up on it’s handle helped with balance because it took Harry a full month before he realized he had been doing it wrong and Madam Hooch had all but flogged him for his ignorance after a match. 

His interest seemed to annoy Draco in the beginning and that only made Harry more curious. Once he opened his mouth, he surprised even himself with how much he wanted to know about Draco.

He was met with more than one, _Go read a book or something, Potter,_ before Draco actually began to answer his questions earnestly. At first, Draco would answer his questions with a scowl and skeptical eyes that seemed to say,  _And what exactly is your hidden agenda?_ But then once the scowl shifted to a smirk and slowly he started to enjoy telling Harry how to maneuver out of a dive without compromising speed.

From there, the conversations diverted from simple Quidditch talk into something deeper. On one night in particular when Draco won, Harry was feeling this surge of need in himself and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it, so stalling seemed the easiest tactic.

Draco’s hair was windswept and his forehead glistening with sweat. The heat of summer was settling in over the grounds, though it wasn’t in full swing yet, merely a suggestion of heat that coated their bodies in a thin layer of sweat like dew on grass.

Harry dropped to his knees, letting his broom go, and then fell forward on his stomach, panting into the damp grass, taking in the smell of earth. Laying there, he felt more like a person than he had in months, maybe longer.

“Good match,” he called to Draco and he meant it. Draco had been in rare form that night. He flew with great control and speed. Harry suspected that Draco was practicing flying during the day sometime so he could beat Harry finally after a two weeks long losing streak.

“Good match?” Draco asked scandalized, “That was a bloody great match. I’m completely spent. And I see you’ve been practicing that new grip I showed you last week?”

“I might have done,” Harry laughed and rolled onto his back, tucking his hands behind his neck, so he could look up at Draco who was standing parallel to his shoulder. Harry found he rather liked Draco’s over exaggerated poshness. It made even the most typical conversations take on this ‘tactical battle of wits’ feeling.

Though, he especially liked when Draco broke through that poshness and ended up doing normal things like plopping inot a sitting position. Something he never associated with Draco before—plopping. Honestly, he always imagined Draco floated down onto his seats like a ghost.

But Draco could plop like the best of them. And plopping down next to Harry, Draco crossed his legs underneath one another and dropped his broom to his side. He breathed out deeply and then seemed to consider saying something. His brow furrowed and his jaw set. However, he just tilted his head to the side and then leaned back to balance on his palms.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry asked after a moment of silence in which he managed to over analyze how close Draco was sitting to him and how his left hand was suggestively close to Harry’s bicep.

In fact, Harry was hard pressed to form a coherent thought that wasn’t: _Hand close, very close._

“Merlin, Potter. All you do is ask questions,” Draco said, but his tone wasn’t that of someone annoyed so much as someone pleasantly exasperated.

“Not true.”

“Very true,” Draco said, side-eyeing Harry playfully, then continued, “All right, all right, what’s the question, Potter?”

“Does anyone know that we…” Harry cut himself off because he could hear the quiet desperation in his voice. It had been nagging at him for a while now, but he wasn’t sure how to put into words what he wanted to ask.

Really, he wasn’t even sure what he was asking. _Do they know we play seekers games? That we are trading tips and tricks for better broom maintenance? That we somehow started being almost friendly toward one another? That this thing, whatever it is, is important to us?_

Or was it something else all together? Something Harry had never vocalized, but still felt it in every fiber of his being.

Draco’s eyes were still on him. Harry could feel them roaming his face in search of something, but Harry kept his eyes on the night sky. Under the scrutiny of his gaze, Harry considered saying never mind and calling it a night, but this feeling—this heaviness in his stomach—it was too much to ignore anymore. He was carrying it around with him constantly.

“That we what?” Draco asked, his voice unsure, when it was clear Harry wasn’t going to continue.

Harry felt Draco’s hand twitch near his. Instinctively, Harry moved closer and felt the first brush of Draco’s finger on the soft skin of his arm. His body hummed contentedly like a cat purring when someone scratched behind its ear.

“That we, uh,” Harry whispered, looking up at Draco, “Do _this_ every night?”

He hoped Draco would get his meaning. That Draco wasn’t going to make him say it all. Make him put into words all the feelings that were buzzing around inside his head. Because even though they never said anything, Harry was sure that there was something.

“Oh, well, no,” Draco said, clearing his throat. He was determinedly not looking at Harry now.

Then he spoke. “Un—unless you’ve told someone?”

There was something about his voice that gave Harry pause. In all their years of fighting and whatever this was now, he wasn’t quite sure he had ever heard Draco sound so hopeful but Harry couldn’t let himself linger on exactly what Draco had hoped. If he did, he might screw it up.

“Er, no. I wasn’t sure if you—if we—what I mean is, are we…is this some— _shite_.”

Draco’s face fell.

It was so jarring because up until that point Harry would have described Draco’s face as being set in a sort of curious scowl, which is already a semi-frowny look. But at Harry’s words, Draco’s face settled into even more of a frown.

“This is shite?” Draco asked. His eyebrows knitted together and he chewed on his bottom lip.

“No, that’s not what I…of course,” Harry sat up so he could look Draco in the eyes, “That isn’t what I—what I mean is…I like this.”

There was a pause in which Harry was sure he had just ruined weeks of building up whatever it was between them. It had been difficult enough to get Draco to believe he didn’t have some hidden agenda, that he was just trying to get to know him. Harry couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to build trust all over again.

Then Draco nodded slowly and a smile blossomed across his face.

“Yes. Me as well.”

Draco was still smiling and the earnestness of it make Harry’s breath catch. Sitting there across from Draco, Harry allowed himself to think all of those thoughts he had been boxing away. The swarmed inside of him like a hornet’s nest knocked on it’s side—buzzing and racing around in search of some unseeable thing.

***

After that night, their midnight seeker’s games seemed to hold renewed meaning. The acknowledgment that both Harry and Draco felt the same way about their meetings, that they held the same meaning for both of them, made their bond stronger.

Weaved into all of the challenges, friendship bloomed like wildflowers in a field. It was evident in their speech. Still bickering, but with greater understanding. Certain things were off limits and they stayed that way. Harry never mentioned Draco’s parents or the dark mark, and Draco stopped calling Harry a martyr. He had refused, however, to refrain from calling Harry ‘the Saviour’ because he claimed it was too bloody funny to see Harry roll his eyes whenever he did.

  
It was evident in their body language which was still intense, but for different reasons. They still bumped and pushed one another when chasing the snitch, but for Harry, those shoves were less about throwing Draco off his game and more about the rush of warmth Harry felt with they touched, skin on skin.

It was even evident in their day time dynamic, which up until the night, had remained the same as it always was—to everyone, they were still enemies. Now, their interactions during the day were punctuated with smirks, knowing head nods, and looks that communicated unspoken understandings.

Hermione and Ron noticed one morning at breakfast that Harry was staring at Draco, not with contempt, but with a very dumb smile on his face. To be fair, Draco was returning his look with an even dumber smile plastered on his face. A piece of toast hanging in front of his mouth.

After that, his mates bombarded him with questions that he didn’t have the answers to, and some he did have the answers to, but he got too much enjoyment out of watching Hermione hate that she didn’t understand something that he never answered.

Draco said his mates had been asking questions, too, but all he had to do was give them one withering stare and they dropped the subject—at least they dropped it around him. But that didn’t stop them and everyone else from trying to understand the seemingly friendly manner in which Harry and Draco seemed to regard one another suddenly.

One night, when the heat of summer and finals had finally settled in, Harry arrived at the pitch a few minutes late. It was bad enough that the whole school was more focused on figuring out what was going on between them than they were on finals, but now Harry had to actually really try hard to sneak to the pitch to avoid Hermione’s sleuthing skills. She had taken to staking out the common room, so Harry had to use the invisibility cloak and a number of silencing charms to get out.

After a minute, Harry worried that without an invisibility cloak, Draco had too hard a time sneaking out to the pitch, but then Draco waltzed up, his broom balanced on his shoulder. He wore a white undershirt and tight shorts that resembled muggle biker shorts. They hugged Draco’s thighs and ass, revealing the delicate slope of his muscles—lean and taught.

Harry swallowed hard as Draco knelt to make sure his trainers were tied before the match started. The scene before him made his body hum with excitement more than catching the snitch ever had. Harry had known that Draco must have been toned—especially since Draco flew like it was the most natural thing in the world, but he had never seen Draco so— exposed.

Even though it was getting incrementally warmer out, both of them had kept to wearing their quidditch kits. The jersey’s were long sleeved and the pants had necessary padding in them. And now, here was Draco wearing those bloody shorts.

Harry, before he could regain his senses, blurted out, “That’s what you’re wearing to play? _Seriously_?”

Draco straightened up from checking his trainers and shrugged his shoulders. Licking his bottom lip, he responded casually, “Yeah. Thought you would like it since it’s muggle fashion.”

 _Thought he would like it?_ Harry felt himself let out a breath that turned into a laugh. Of course, he liked it. He liked it more than he wanted to admit. But that wasn’t the point. The point was, how the hell was he supposed to focus on the snitch when Draco looked like that?

“Er, I like it well enough,” Harry found himself answering in spite of himself. He still hadn’t managed to tear his gaze away from Draco’s pale, exposed thighs.

“One of the Slytherin first years told me about them. They’re called ‘biker shorts.’ Apparently, muggles have things they ride which are similar to brooms. Though they don’t fly.”

“I’ve heard of a bike. I’m just surprised you have.”

“I know things, Potter,” Draco drawled and then punctuated it with a wink. He circled Harry, eyeing him up and down, then continued, “Plus it is getting too hot to play in a full quidditch kit, don’t you think? Last week we were both positively drenched by the end of it.”

“Probably,” Harry answered. His breath caught in his chest. There was something so suggestive about everything Draco was doing. The tight clothes. The winking. The innuendo.

Suddenly, he felt silly in his full quidditch kit. Silly, and uncomfortably hot. Terribly, uncomfortably hot. Hot in places that he would rather not be hot in, not when he was still under the intensity of Draco’s gaze. Though he suspected the hotness which had devoured his body had more to do with what Draco looked like in those shorts and less to do with the weather.

“Shall we play?”

Draco smiled his smile that said: _I’ve won, Potter._ He wore it whenever he felt he bested Harry. The posh prat was so confident that he threw Harry off his game by wearing tight—extremely tight and extremely revealing; _Merlin, so revealing_ —shorts.

“In a moment,” Harry said, an idea forming. He decided to tear off his quidditch jersey before he could think too much on why he thought this was a good countermove. He wore nothing under it. The humid air clung to his chest making it feel almost as if the jersey was still in place.

“Potter, why are you undressing?” Draco asked, completely scandalized. His mouth hanging open. A slight blush coloring his cheeks.

“You’re right. It’s too hot for a full quidditch kit, so I’ll just fly like this,” Harry said, smirking because he was sure Draco was as affected by Harry being shirtless as Harry had been watching Draco bend over in those shorts. As always, two could play that game.

As they both soared upward in search of the snitch, Harry’s mind went positively mental. It was one thing to know Draco valued these games as much as Harry did, but it was another to suspect—hope— that Draco was as affected by him as he was by Draco. Harry had noted Draco’s gulp at seeing Harry bare-chested—his adam’s apple bobbed under the tight streak of skin of his throat.

Draco glided across the night sky—still as graceful as before only somehow more enticing, more entrancing. His movements were still the same, but Harry had trouble keeping his eyes from raking themselves up and down the length of Draco’s thighs. So pale. So firm. Harry felt his fingers twitching at the thought of running themselves up and down the soft inseam of his thighs.

Images flashed through his mind of pinning Draco down on the pitch, the dew of the grass moist on their bodies as they tangled themselves around one another, Harry’s hands free to roam the pale expanse of Draco’s thighs. Free to pull at the hem of Draco’s shirt and slip across the taut muscles of his abdomen.

 _Merlin_ , Harry thought, _focus_. He was sure to lose tonight’s match if he kept on that line of thought.

Head back in the game, or at least partially back since Harry was still letting his eyes rake along the line of muscle in Draco’s thigh, Harry noticed the snitch was buzzing next to Draco for a full minute before Draco tore his gaze from Harry’s chest long enough to snatch it out of the air.

Harry hadn’t even bothered to fly for it.

Once they both touched ground, Harry felt his heart hammering in his chest. He wanted to say something—anything—to make Draco understand what he was feeling.

“Good match,” Harry said if only to keep Draco from shoving the snitch in his hands and running off the pitch. He had that cagey look about him—the one that screamed Run.

“Mm, yeah,” Draco said with none of his usual bragging after a win. His face was scrunched up in thought and he looked everywhere but at Harry. His hand was tightly wrapped around the snitch.

“Rematch tomorrow?”

  
“Er, I’m not sure. Exams are coming up…”

Harry felt his stomach sink. Draco’s suddenly rejection of their ritual of empty challenges struck him like a stinging hex. Maybe Harry had imagined the bond he felt between them. Maybe he was a fool to think that they could ever be anything more than what they already were.

“Well, I better…” Draco started, but trailed off as he outstretched his fisted hand to Harry, palm up.

Harry reached a hand out and covered Draco’s fist. Underneath his hand, he felt Draco open his fingers and the soft flutter of the snitch’s wings hit his skin. For a moment, Harry lingered there—the snitch trapped between their palms. The moment felt like an eternity—like there were thousands of years in between the seconds.

“You—you’re so beautiful,” Harry whispered. It wasn’t what he had meant to say—he had meant to ask Draco why all of a sudden he refused a rematch.

Draco didn’t respond. He didn’t move either. Their hands still holding the snitch in place. Draco only blinked a few times in quick succession and then opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then didn’t.

Another quiet moment passed between them—Harry watching Draco watch him. Around them, the air felt thick and hot. He wanted to say something else, but Draco twitched and started to pull his hand away, so Harry scooped the snitch out of Draco’s palm and pocketed it.

***

The next morning, Harry was desperate to see Draco, but he was nowhere to be found. He must have skipped breakfast and Harry didn’t see him in Potions. Everyone around him seemed to move too slow—he was fighting through crowds of slow moving people all day. He needed to find Draco and explain. He needed to know how Draco felt.

It was lunch before Harry knew it, and with the warm summer weather, many students were gathered in the courtyard. Ron and Hermione only managed to drag him outside after Harry was sure Draco wasn’t hiding somewhere in the Great Hall.

Out in the courtyard, Harry scanned the crowd. Ron had been talking to him, but Harry couldn’t hear a word because his eyes spotted a streak of white-blonde hair across the courtyard. Draco was sitting with Pansy, lazily eating an apple—juice covering his lips. He wasn’t wearing his robes. They were in a careless pile next to him on the bench. His shirt was unbuttoned at the top, revealing a pale chest. His legs were crossed and Harry noted the flex of his thigh muscles.

Ignoring all rationality and the calls of his mates, Harry marched across the courtyard determined to speak to Draco. Since he was making a b-line straight for him, the crowd turned their attention on Harry, hoping to finally understand what was going on between the pair.

When he was standing in front of Draco and Pansy, he spoke, “Why did you just leave like that?”

“Potter,” Draco said, his voice a warning.

A warning Harry ignored. 

“Well? Last night, you just up and left without a word. Why?”

“Potter, you’re making a scene,” Draco said, his voice barely audible. His eyes were flitting around, taking in the size of the crowd that surrounded them. Harry couldn’t make himself care that everyone was watching. Nothing new there.

Only if this were two years ago and Harry had been confronting Draco like this, he would have been challenging him to a duel, but now he was challenging him to something else entirely.

“So what if I am? Answer my question.”

Draco turned to Pansy. She shrugged at him seemingly uninterested. Then Draco returned his gaze to Harry. “How about we meet later to talk?”

“No,” Harry said firmly, “How about now?”

“You’re being fucking ridiculous.”

Harry, rash as always, had enough of this dance they were doing and shouted, “I tell you that you’re beautiful and all you can say to me is that I’m ridiculous?”

At Harry’s words, there was a collective gasp from the crowd watching them, the sound like a flock of birds taking off at once. Behind him, there was a shriek that sounded an awful lot like Hermione and an awkward laugh that had Ron written all over it. His mates must have caught up with him.

“You really want to do this here?” Draco asked, standing up abruptly, his chest heaving. Draco’s height made it so Harry had to tilt his head slightly to keep their eyes locked.

“Yes, I really do .”

“Fine, then say what you have to say, so I can go back to ignoring you.”

“You’re beautiful, Draco,” he repeated, this time smirking at Draco they way he would if he caught the snitch seconds before Draco could. He hoped Draco understood the meaning—the unspoken part of it all that said: _I love you._

Draco didn’t respond. His mouth fell open and his cheeks flushed, but he didn’t respond. Harry was afraid that after this, Draco would never speak to him again, but Harry was also afraid that if he did nothing, that moment between them last night would be lost forever. With school coming to an end and effectively ending their midnight matches, he needed to act.

Moving in closer, Harry repeated himself again, “You’re beautiful.”

Still, Draco said nothing. Pansy and the crowd, mirrored Draco’s silence. All seemed to hold their breath. Harry felt Hermione and Ron behind him, but he didn’t take his eyes off Draco. He couldn’t ever take his eyes of Draco—not now, not even when they were younger.

“Potter, you are ridiculous,” Draco said, finally. A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes fell to Harry’s lips.

Harry closed the space between them and wrapped one hand around Draco’s waist, drawing him in. Then he slipped the other behind Draco’s neck. He could feel Draco’s pulse pounding under his touch. It was racing like a hummingbird’s wings.

Someone in the crowd whistled. Other’s were ooo-ing. But Harry focused on Draco and how his body started to melt into his. Their torsos meeting. Their thighs flush against one another. Touching Draco held all the same weight as it did when they were on the pitch. There was still the hum of electricity between them like a live wire.

He felt Draco’s grip on his biceps. It was unsure at first, but then he tightened his grip and Harry felt grounded in the moment despite the crowds chant of kiss, kiss, kiss.

Leaning in so their foreheads touched, Harry paused in front of Draco’s lips—breathing in the scent of the apple Draco had been eating.

“You are beautiful, Draco,” Harry whispered the words against Draco’s lips. Then their lips brushed agasint one another, soft and slow. Harry felt shaken. His breath erratic. He pulled away briefly, but found Draco’s lips followed him and captured him in a deeper kiss. Their mouths opening to one another. Perfectly matched, even in this. 

  


End file.
